With my left hand I grabbed Matheson’s uniform lapel and pulled him close. Amidst the fumes of his peculiar cologne, I whispered into his ear, “Tell Parker to watch his back. When he’s out there, tell him to watch his back.”
“What’s going on, Jaggers?”
“It was a trap. We were set up.”
I released his lapel, he leaned back, and studied me for a moment. “Army ordinance, the bomb unit, and Scenes of Crime officers all seem to think the explosion was an old dud artillery shell. There’s evidence—”
“It hasn’t been used as a firing range of any kind for over eighty years, sir. The last of the ballistic artillery shells used there landed twelve decades ago.” My thoughts swam reluctantly through my headache. “There was an observation post on top of Hangingstone Hill. Third highest spot on the moor. Makes sense to put an observation post there. Why then would the army shell Hangingstone Hill? The observation shack? Get the army to check their records. On top of that hill is where observers used to stand and see where artillery shells landed elsewhere.”
He studied me for a long time, then stood. “Get some rest, Jaggers. The doctor says you’ll be back home tomorrow or the day after. Fit for duty in a couple of weeks.”
“I can go back to work now, Superintendent. Copied into a walking mech, I can function perfectly well.”
“Your body needs to heal, Jaggers, which means you need to be in it moving it around, doing physical therapy or whatever.” He gave me that rather startling John Dillinger frown, which was his expression of gentle concern. “There’s some head work you need to do, as well. I insist you see that counselor.”
I looked up at him. “Superintendent, has anyone notified Val?”
“Of course. As soon as we got the word from Okehampton I sent someone to fetch her. Val and a friend of hers—another cat—are waiting outside the room.”
“Nadine Fisher.” I felt my heart sink. “She and Shad have been dating.”
Matheson’s eyebrows arched. “A cat and a duck?”
“Is that any more unusual than a cat and a man being married?” I demanded rather more angrily than intended.
“Sorry.” He thought for a moment. “I suppose it isn’t unusual for our times. My wife Constance can be wed to John Dillinger, your wife Valerie can be a cat and married to Basil Rathbone, your partner a duck dating another cat, and my leading inquiry team right now is a frustrated bloodhound and an incontinent gorilla. The world is still just at the beginning of the entire artificial being phenomenon, isn’t it?”
“My concerns aren’t quite that philosophical, sir. Tell Parker to watch his back.” I looked up at him. “Revenge and murder are still with us.”
Matheson raised a hand and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s most likely an accident, Jaggers, but I’ll get in touch with London ABC, convey your suspicions, see what they suggest.”
He placed his hand on my shoulder. “Terribly sorry about Shad.” He nodded, turned, and left the room, leaving the door open. As soon as he left, Val and her friend Nadine came in. Nadine was an orange tabby. My wife hopped up on the bed and Nadine, never presumptuous, climbed up on the chair recently vacated by the superintendent.
“How do you feel, Harry?” Val asked.
“A bit shell shocked.” I reached out a hand and stroked her cheek. “Were you terribly worried?”
She cocked her head toward her friend. “I’m afraid Nadine is the one who’s having a fright.”
“Detective Superintendent Matheson said that Guy is dead,” Nadine said quietly, her tone begging for another opinion.
I looked at Nadine, and expression is often difficult to read in a cat. They always look so inscrutably pleased with themselves over some covert triumph. Nadine, though, looked miserable. Her head hung down, and she made a pitiful and barely audible mewing sound. All I could do was lie there looking foolish. I would’ve resorted to some sort of we’ll-get-the-blighter-who-did-this rhetoric, but I feared it would have been heard as falsely as it would have fitted my tongue. Either it was an accident, which meant that gunners and range officers responsible were long dead and gone, or it was indeed set up by person or persons unknown quite skilled at what it takes to stage a crime scene. Either way, that slight reduction in pain referred to by that vacuous term closure seemed distant, not just for Nadine, but all of us.
“Why, Harry,” said Val as she looked at my face, “you’re crying.”
I raised my right hand and rubbed my eyes. My fingers came away wet. “I’m afraid I am.”
Nadine jumped over onto the bed and the three of us did what we could then for poor Shad, which was bugger all. Perhaps we helped each other a little.
That night, by the grace of a strong sedative, I slept without dreams. The next day I tried walking on my balloon cast and hearing with my new implants. The implants worked perfectly; the balloon cast, aided by sufficient medication, was almost adequate. I avoided my room’s telly at first. I knew what would be on. When Shad had been the slapstick funny insurance duck he had children around the world quacking out “aflak-aflak” at particularly serious interludes in classes, during church sermons, political campaign speeches, and funerals. Not entirely restricted to children, moreover. I confess to issuing a rude little “aflak” or two myself back in Metro when the detective chief superintendent would descend from Valhalla and portentously deign to address “you chaps,” concerning some high profile case that was drawing heat from the commissioner. One of several reasons I was let go, I suspect.
I eventually gave in and watched one of the reports: a few clips from his adverts and interviews; a laudatory comment from Chief Constable Crowe of the Devon & Cornwall Constabulary, concerning Shad’s brief career in ABCD; followed by a computer-generated eulogy delivered by the lizard who had replaced Shad’s duck when his insurance firm was merged with another. Instead of his usual nakedness, the lizard was somberly dressed in black tie and suit and oozed virtual sincerity. He concluded his tribute to Shad by making a tasteful pitch for his firm’s term life insurance plan. “You never know,” he concluded as an image of Shad appeared on the screen, surrounded by a wreath of daisies.
I always hated that lizard.
The newscasters moved over to stories of more pressing matters: the latest mutation of E. drupi, the erectile dysfunction virus; the possibilities of latest teen musical fad Cragsuck Funk destroying all life on this planet as we know it; and the electrifying results of the latest government-funded weight-loss study (weight loss can be achieved most effectively by consuming moderate amounts of a well-balanced diet in combination with a regular program of exercise). I changed the channel and found the same Law & Order reruns that had been on the telly the previous time I’d been in hospital.
After a few more tests the following morning, I was released, an ambulance delivering me home finally after a heated debate about the necessity of me being strapped down upon their little roll-around before they could move. Settled in at home, there was an online tutorial for my wireless interface, and with Val’s computer I attempted to occupy my mind between headaches learning how to use it. In my first net connection I went to a news site and read the reports on the explosion. Dud shell went off. The deceased was a duck bio who used to be a telly star. Click here for animation. Aflak.
I clicked and there were clips taken from several of Shad’s adverts. I shut it down, closed my eyes, and ran what I knew: By itself the call from Okehampton Station might have been a hoax. Rather sophisticated hoax, considering the call had to come in with the proper police codes and encryption. Still, it could have been a hoax. By itself the explosion might have been an old dud artillery shell finally grown unstable enough to go up at that particular place and moment. By itself a shell firing short, falling next to an observation post unobserved, and being a dud as well might just have happened. All together, though, it was a bloody stretch of timing that gave credulity stretch marks.